


The Economics of James Wesley's Life

by MarvelNerd



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Study, F/M, Fiskley, M/M, Origin Story, Panic Attacks, Unrequited Love, Wesley POV, this is going to hurt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-31
Updated: 2020-04-22
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:14:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23407381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MarvelNerd/pseuds/MarvelNerd
Summary: Why is Wesley so loyal to Fisk? Simple economics. Wesley gets.... something out of the relationship. He's not quite sure what it is, but it doesn't really matter. All he knows is that the boy that moved into his neighbor's house for summer is someone he wants to work with. He's worth the trade-off of their relationship, and to Wesley, he's worth everything.This is an origin story for how Fisk and Wesley met, and why they are so close. It's pretty heavy on Wesley's emotions and experiences because he deserved much more from the show.
Relationships: Francis/James Wesley, James Wesley/Original Male Character(s), Vanessa Marianna Fisk/Wilson Fisk, Wilson Fisk & James Wesley, Wilson Fisk/James Wesley
Comments: 2
Kudos: 8





	1. One

The roof tiles were searing under where his crossed knees lay stiffly on them. The air was hot and dry, but gentle gusts of a breeze blew through his hair every so often. His fingers occasionally flipped a yellowing page of _Parallel Lives_ as the soft smells of sun-dried weeds and lilac.

Wesley didn’t go outside very often. He preferred the clean and controlled isolation his attic bedroom provided. The outdoors was sticky and unpredictable, a mixture of hot sun and pollen that never quite left his skin feeling clean. Regardless of how often he left his bedroom, Wesley knew the neighbors, (specifically lack thereof) down to a T. 

The Stuart family, who lived exactly 4.6 miles south from his mailbox drove a maroon Ford F-600 with a back right tire that was smaller than the other ones. Because of this, the car made a noise whenever it drove down the road that Wesley could easily identify.

The Penters didn’t own a car, they rode bikes everywhere they went. Janet and Walter, the married couple that owned the falling apart farm the Penters lived on had five children. More times than he could count the Penter children would bike up to his house, dopiest grins Wesley had ever had the misfortune of seeing plastered on their chubby-cheeked faces, would beg him to play.

“I do not want to play with you,” Wesley had said to them one time.

“Come on James,” the youngest, Peter, said. His front tooth jutted out over his mouth whenever he spoke, and it made Wesley’s lip curl in annoyance.

He steadied himself and tucked his hands behind his back, a formal pose his father had beaten into him whenever he addressed someone beneath him and raised an eyebrow. 

“Remember your dog, Jasper?” Wesley said to Peter.

“Yeah, he ran away,” his face fell.

“Well, I decided he looked like he would taste good with garlic butter and a baked potato.”

Peter and his siblings ran away screaming, and after that Wesley was never bothered by them again. He hadn’t actually eaten the dog, of course, actually, the dog was emaciated and riddled with fleas and ticks so he had taken it to the animal shelter on his last bike ride to town.

Wesley preferred the Bakers the best, not because they didn’t have annoying children (which contributed), or because their car actually worked and didn’t scrape on the road. He liked the Bakers because the old grandfather that lived there used to be a university professor, and on occasion, Wesley had been able to sneak over for tea while he learned the languages of Mandarin and Japanese from the wise old man.

_“or though all persons are equally subject to the caprice of fortune, yet all good men have one advantage she cannot deny, which is this, to act reasonably under misfortunes._

He turned his attention back to his book for a while, and when the sun had eased off its scorching heat Wesley tucked it under his armpit and went inside. 

At the kitchen table sat his brother, Bruce, alone, sipping a beer while digging his finger into a chip in the wood.

“Hey, Wes,” he said, a half attempted smile on his face. His eyes had bags underneath them, dark and round but no more than usual.

“Where is-” Wesley began, but his brother’s gaze was out of the window to the stable on the back of the property.

“Upstairs, with Mom,” Bruce filled in for him, taking a sip of his beer. Wesley nodded and started up, avoiding the second and fifth stairs which creaked if he stepped on them.

His room was clean and perfect. Everything had a spot, and unless it was in use, it was never moved from it. He wanted to crawl into bed, forget everything that had happened this morning, and drift into the nothingness that sleep provided. Wesley was only thirteen, and he felt like the world rested on his scrawny shoulders.

He set the book down in the third slot of the second shelf of his bookcase and removed his sweaty t-shirt and socks, placing them in the hamper. Wesley had learned it was best to walk to the bathroom for his shower with his shorts still on and secured the hard way.

Wesley returned to his room smelling of lavender soap alone and unscathed. In the hall, he heard the soft murmurs of his father speaking in his parent’s bedroom. 

Most kids Wesley’s age had made some friends by this point. It was only natural human behavior, he supposed. Friends were a commodity, something that could be used and relied upon. It was wise to pick some that were worth what you could return to them. So far, in rural Virginia, Welsey had yet to find anyone worth his time. And if he’s being honest with himself, no one has found him worth their time either. 

His father hadn't taught him much besides how to stand straight, follow orders and be proper. The man was distant and cold, simply expecting his sons to fit into a mold he had handcrafted in his basement woodshop that always smelled of tobacco and sawdust. 

“Listen here James,” he said with a glass of scotch sloshing in his hand. Wesley flinched at the use of his real name. He hated it, it always sounded too immature, too unprofessional on anyone’s tongue.

“I’m going to teach you about economics.”

Wesley squinted through his wide framed glasses and didn’t speak.

“It’s very simple, really. Someone gives someone an item or a service, and that person returns in a way both agree upon,” he took a sip and smacked his lips, “That make sense to you?”

Wesley nodded fiercely, proud that he could understand what his father was telling him.

“Not so stupid after all then huh,” he chuckled and Wesley’s cheeks flushed red. “Every relationship you’re ever going to come across is going to be a trade-off. There is no such thing as a selfless act, there is always something in it for the person that performs it. 

“What about love?” Wesley asked.

His father scoffed, “What about it? It makes no difference. Love is a commodity.”

Wesley’s brow furrowed in confusion, “But what about you and mom?” he asked tentatively, “Wouldn’t you love her no matter what?”

“Yes and No,” he said, scratching the stubble on his chin, “It would take a lot for me to not be satisfied with our relationship, and I’d probably love her even after, but sometimes that just isn’t enough. I’d expect her to say the same thing.”

Wesley stared at his father with eyes that were starting to lose their youthful shine, “What about me?”

“The same thing,” he shrugged, “There are certain things you could do or tell me that would make our relationship not worth the effort anymore.”

Now Wesley looked himself in the mirror and sized up what a commodity he was worth, how much value he held. He didn’t see much staring back at him.

  
  



	2. Two

When Wesley woke up at exactly 6:45 the next morning, he immediately heard the sound of the car outside. It wasn’t the Baker’s, and it certainly wasn’t the Penter’s bikes. It sounded smooth and well oiled like someone was in a rush to get there, do their business, and leave.

He hurriedly put his glasses on his nose and crept to the old window facing the street. Sure enough, in front of the Baker’s house, was a navy blue pickup truck. Mr. Baker came out from the house with a swing of the front door and walked down the long stone path to the road.

Wesley watched as a boy stepped out of the passenger seat. He was too far away to get a good view, but Wesley could see him pull a large, leather suitcase out of the back of the truck. He seemed almost frozen in time like his limbs were moving through honey and his brain too foggy to catch up.

A woman got out of the driver’s seat, his mother, Wesley assumed from the way she pushed his back towards Mr. Baker. She made some hand gestures to the man, hugged her son and whispered something in his ear, and as soon as she had come she was gone, the car driving off back down the main road.

Mr. Baker was gentle with the boy as they walked up the path. He treated him like the way Wesley had treated the Penter’s dog, like a wild animal that was traumatized and dangerous. An animal that could lash out in fear of being harmed again. 

When he came downstairs, his mother was making pancakes on the stove. He walked to her and kissed her cheek, “Good morning, mother,” he said, nodding his head.

“Good morning, Wesley,” her eyes were as distant as they usually were and Wesley gave her a side smile that didn’t quite reach his own.

His father was already at the table, steaming a cup of coffee in his hand with the paper.

“Sir,” Wesley said to him, placing his hands behind his back as he had been taught.

“What is it?” he didn’t look up from his paper.

“Do you know anything about a boy staying with the Bakers?”

“No, I don’t,” he looked at his son as if searching for a hidden meaning to his question.

Wesley nodded and sat at the seat across from the window. Bruce was still in bed, he never woke in time for breakfast, and their father was never too pleased about it.

“Sometimes I wonder if you’re worth the trade-off,” his Father usually said when he finally came upstairs. Bruce would scoff. He didn’t believe in the trade-off theory. 

“Don’t listen to em James,” he said after their father had first told him about his economics theories. “Love exists, alright? True love. The kind that isn’t about trade-offs and bargains.” 

Wesley wasn’t sure who to believe, he figured he had time to solve that puzzle.

Breakfast was silent, as it usually was, and so was the afternoon and dinner. The next day was much of the same thing and the next. Every day Wesley would check out of his window for the boy at the Bakers, and every day he was not to be seen.

It was a week after the boy arrived that Wesley saw him. He was sitting on a rock near the Baker’s mailbox, staring blankly at the dirt under his feet. Wesley straightened his glasses and went outside.

The closer he got the more he saw what the boy looked like. His hair was blonde, and his belly round. His face was pudgy and blank, expressionless except for a squint to keep out the sun.

“Hello,” the boy said when Wesley approached. 

“Hello,” Wesley replied.

“What do you want?” the boy asked. This took Wesley off guard. What did he want? Why had he been so interested in the boy across the street? He honestly didn’t know.

“I saw you come in last week,” he kept stiff, but shrugged with his neck, “I was curious.”

The boy blinked at him, “I’m Wilson,” he said. Wesley smiled, the same one he gave his mother every morning.

“I’m Wesley.”

Wilson looked at him for a long moment, a piercing gaze that didn’t suit his soft features. Wesley shifted uncomfortably, “I live in the house across the street,” he pointed for emphasis.

There was silence, and Wesley was starting to regret his decision to come over, but Wilson spoke again, “You don’t want to be friends with me.”

Wesley raised an eyebrow. Wesley had no idea how to determine if he should befriend Wilson. He had no good reason to be here, there was nothing in it for him. Not only that, but he had no idea how to be a friend, or talk to people normally.

Wilson kicked the dirt at his feet, and Wesley took the opportunity to squeeze next to him on the rock. He noticed immediately that the boy smelled like sunscreen and something sweet like apples. Ever since he was little Wesley always picked up on the smell of people.

His father smelled like alcohol and sawdust, sometimes the wisp of cigarette smoke. Bruce more often than not smelled like horses and grass from working in their stable all day. His mother always smelled like chamomile and rubbing alcohol, a smell Wesley took much comfort in.

“I think I can determine that myself,” he finally replied, and saw the hint of a smile of Wilson’s face.


	3. 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To whoever wrote the comment on the last chapter, you've inspired me to finish. Thank you so much, it means the world.

“What do you make of this?” Wesley asked, splaying out a book given to him by Mr. Baker on the picnic bench.

Wilson leaned closer to the book, eyebrows growing together as he focused on the page. Wesley’s chest grew warm at the sight of it.

‘The life of money-making is one undertaken under compulsion, and wealth is evidently not the good we are seeking; for it is merely useful and for the sake of something else.’

Wilson read from the pages of the book. “I think it’s silly.”

Wesley rested his elbows on the table and pushed up his glasses, “Why?”

“It’s not wrong, but this passage makes it seem like by dedicating your life to making money, it is somehow wasted. Of course, money is used for something else, that’s the point, Wesley. Wealth is what we are looking for, a wealth of love and emotion. You don’t need to trade for things like that, it’s supposed to be given freely.”

Blankly, Wesley stared at his friend. Clearly he had misunderstood what Wilson had said. Everything is about economics, every relationship was a tradeoff. If Wesley wasn’t providing enough as a friend, Wilson had every right to leave him behind.

“I’ve never thought of it that way before,” he said instead.

-

A couple of weeks went by and they grew closer, spending time in Wesley’s room and reading books, studying, and enjoying each other's company. Never in his life had Wesley felt like he was providing enough to the relationship until now, and it made his heart sing.

Seeing Wilson in the morning was when he really woke up. After the same routine of kissing his mother and ignoring his father, Wilson always had something new to say or some new piece of logic to share and Wesley drank up every word he said.

He felt like he was on some kind of drug too when Wilson was next to him. His heart rate would pick up and his skin would tingle where they touched. It was all very confusing. No one ever told him this was part of friendship.

“Do you have a girl you like?” Wilson asked him on a rare day where they were outside. The wind was blowing through his tufts of growing blonde hair and Wesley fought the indescribably urge to tuck it away.

The question was jarring and not at all philosophical. “No,” he answered honestly because he always assumed those feelings for girls would come later. In a sudden and odd wave of panic, he asked, “Do you?”

Wilson shook his head, “No girls ever wanted to even come near me back in New York.”

For the first time, Wesley really allowed himself to look his friend up and down. All it did was make his heart beat faster, “I don’t see why.”

A confused look passed over Wilson’s face, “Wesley, I know you have glasses but are you really that blind?”

Wesley felt exposed for some reason, his cheeks warming up, “No, I just think you look-” he swallowed, “fine.”

They basked in the silence and heat of the sunlight.

-

That night, Wesley lay in bed looking bleakly out his window. He should already be asleep. It was almost 2 am, but something was eating at him. Why did he feel so ashamed? So rattled? Wilson was smart and kind, a good person to be sharing his assets with, so surely the idea of him finding a girl to do that with would make Wesley happy.

Instead it made his chest feel like it was full of lead. He felt as stupid as Peter Penter.

There was a crash that came from the kitchen, and Wesley knew immediately it was Bruce coming home. Barely a beat passed before the hall light came on and he heard his father’s familiar stomping footsteps descend the stairs.

“Bruce Wesley!” He shouted in a twisted gnarl that made Wesley want to curl into his sheets, “You woke up your mother! I can only tolerate so much of your bullshit boy, your value is teetering every so fucking close to the line!”

Bruce laughed, a loud and terrible thing that Wesley felt through the floor, “Life isn’t about fucking trade-offs, it’s about LIVING, EXISTING. If you got out once and a while maybe you’d see that!”

The piercing sound of a bottle breaking rang through the hall and Wesley squeezed his eyes shut.

“Do whatever you want to me Dad,” Bruce’s voice was suddenly very quiet, “I don’t want to live under your guidelines of what makes me worthy to you. I’d never hold you to the same.”

The silence that followed was deafening. Wesley counted the seconds in his head before he started hearing the smacks of fists on skin, followed by wails of pain. He wished Wilson was there, he’d have something to say. Some advice to give.

“James,” his mother pushed open his bedroom door, confusion and terror streaked across her face, “What’s going on?”

Wesley swallowed his fear and stood, guiding his mother to his bedside as the echoes of punches still sounded.

“Dad and Bruce are just cheering over a game mom, don’t worry about it. Everything is fine.”

“Oh,” she smiled a blank thing and reached to smooth out his hair, “Your father and his games.”

Wesley blinked back the tears in his eyes, hearing one final thud from downstairs, “Yeah, he’s pretty good at them.


End file.
